


14 Days

by Curlew



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: Episode related The Plague, Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:28:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curlew/pseuds/Curlew
Summary: Broadly Plague related. Maybe a bit Corvid19 related too?
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	14 Days

Hutch considered ignoring the phone, but decided that would create more trouble than he wanted to deal with, so made a long stretch and snagged the receiver. He didn’t say anything- waiting for the caller to identify himself

“Hey”

He didn’t really want to talk to anyone, but of all the people he didn’t want to talk to, this was the least worst option.

“Hey yourself”  
“How’re you doing?”  
“Fine”  
“Whatcha been doing?”  
Hutch glanced at the wall clock. 11.00.  
“Did a workout. Vacuumed. Couple of hours work”  
A pause.Then.  
“This is me, remember. Whatcha been doing?”  
“Staring at the ceiling”  
“What-iffing?”  
“Yep”

“Not good for you, that. Go get showered and shaved and put clean clothes on. Then call me back.”

“How did you know.......oh, yes. Mind reading 101”

“Nah- people sound different when they’re clean. I’m a detective. I notice things for a living. Go get your tail in that shower. Oh, and wash your dishes”

Hutch laughed “Yes, mom”

For a whole two hours Hutch felt better. Quite cheerful in fact. He showered, shaved especially carefully, dressed, then following instructions, put his apartment in order, watered his plants, then flopped back down on the sofa. As he reached for the phone, it rang and he picked it up, smiling.

“Hey”

But it wasn’t Starsky. It was Judith. And 5 minutes later, he was staring at the ceiling again, what-iffing up a storm.

“Hey. How’s the apartment looking?l  
“Fine”  
“Good. Though I’m expecting better than fine when Terri and I come round to celebrate on Sunday...”  
“Don’t, Starsk. Judith rang.“  
“Ah”  
“Yes. Joe’s sick”  
“He was in much closer contact for longer than you were. He w in the back of the car with him- you were driving”  
“Starsk- I cuffed him!”

“Yeah, well. You need to keep positive.....”  
Starsky’s voice trailed off uncertainly, but Hutch missed the wobble as he suddenly exploded in fury.

“Oh, fuck OFF with your optimism and your “Everything’s going to be fine”schtick. I’m sick of it. It’s not going to be bloody fine. The chances are I’m going to be dead in a week- you just have to face it! Just leave me ALONE!”

He slammed the phone down and flung himself back on the sofa, perversely pleased at having inflicted pain. He considered leaving the phone off the hook- but put it back, reminding himself that he had only bought himself this quarantine period in his own apartment, rather than an observation room at The Memorial because he had promised faithfully to answer his phone and check in three times a day.. Anything else would bring an ambulance and masked and gowned medics and the starkly lit, all glass room. He had been so determined to avoid that, and for the first week he had been sure it was the right decision. He got on with the work he’d brought with him, read, played his guitar, tended his plants and slept 10 hours a night - revelling in the peace and solitude. Starsky had rung often to keep him company and the potentially terrifying future seemed eons away. It was just a precaution, after all. The chances of him being infected had to be low. Two weeks and it’d all be over, he’d be back at work, with all the niggling jobs he’d been putting off done and a bunch of new songs ready for his next gig. Then over the last few days he’s found himself doing less sleeping and more ceiling staring. Less chatting, and more silences on the phone. Until today’s explosion. He’d need to say sorry for that. But not yes - he was still too jangled and antsy. And anyway it was time to check in with Judith. He took his temperature and counted his pulse, then rang the familiar number.

“All normal - that’s good. How are you feeling?”  
“Physically? Fine. Mentally? A bit shit. Had a fight with Starsky”  
“I know. He’s been here to see Joe”  
“How is he?”  
“Not good. Hutch, don’t be too tough on Starsky - this is hard on him too”  
“I know. But he’ll still be here in a week’s time”  
There was a long pause, then Judith said slowly  
“You can’t protect him by pushing him away, you know”  
‘Is that what you think I’m doing?”  
“That’s what I know you’re doing, whether you know it yourself or not. Think about it, and I’ll talk to you tonight”

Hutch put the phone down gently and stared at it for a full five minutes. Then he snatched it up, and dialed the familiar number, tangling his fingers in his haste. There was no answer.

The sun flooding into his bedroom the next morning woke him. To his surprise, he had slept well. He’d shower, then call Starsky, then get back into his routine. Only 4 more days to go. 4 days was nothing. 

He emerged from the shower, whistling, to a letter on the floor. “Breakfast on the mat. Speak soon”

He wrenched the door open just in time to see a red and white car wheel-spinning away with a noise calculated to set his neighbors twitching, and smiled at the paper sack on the mat. On investigation, the sack contained a takeaway cup of spiced tea, two blueberry muffins, a bunch of new magazines and a small plant in a pot. The plant had a note attached in Starsky’s exuberant scrawl. “This is a Cycad. They can live for 100 years. There’s one in England that’s 242 years old. Ugly little fucker, isn’t he? You’d better stick around, partner, because I’m damned if I’m giving him house room. Love S  
PS His name is Harold  
PPS No need for apologies- we’re both feeling a little skittish”

Hutch unaccountably found the words blurring as he read them, and had to swipe his sleeve across his eyes before they were clear again

You could push Starsky as hard as possible. But once he had planted his feet he wasn’t going anywhere.

The next few days passed pleasantly enough. Hutch finished updating the stack of files he’d brought home, wrote two songs he actually liked, kept the apartment at Starsky levels of cleanliness and tidiness and dutifully checked in with Judith with completely normal temperatures and pulse readings. He was beginning to hear a relieved smile in her voice when she spoke to him- a little broader with each passing day. He liked the way it sounded, liked imagining her delicately drawn lips and deep brown eyes as she spoke. Starsky was incredibly busy, but still rang often, planning their “Springing Hutch!” party. It was all nearly over. 

Saturday night, they watched the ball game together, shouting down the phone as they would have done if they’d been sprawled on the sofa. A few beers, pizza-a promise of the normality to come. Suddenly, Starsky said-  
“So. Judith?”  
“What about her?”  
“You’ve invited her tomorrow?”  
“No, of course I haven’t”  
“Why the hell not? It’s OK, though, I have”  
“Starsky! What did you do that for?”  
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.....hang on, buddy, that’s Terri at the door”

Hutch basked in the warmth of the other couple’s friendship for a few more minutes, then tactfully excused himself, pleading tiredness, and went happily to bed and to sleep.

The sun woke him again, but for some reason it seemed particularly hot, and particularly bright. Too bright for him to keep his eyes open, and for a while he kept them shut, wondering how many beers he had drunk. Then, determinedly he levered himself up and, eyes half open he stumbled to the bathroom. He managed to stand, swaying, long enough to pee, but the bedroom was an impossible distance away, and he collapsed onto the sofa. Like a tidal wave, heat and pain swept over him, leaving him drenched in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. He tried to reach for the phone but it was too far. With a sob he flopped back against the cushion- all he could do was wait to find out what happened when he didn’t make the 8.00 check in. Shivering now, he managed to pull the Afghan from the back of the sofa over himself and fixed his gaze on Harold the Cycad in his pot on the table beside him. “You know what, Harold?” he said- his voice rasping and unfamiliar in his own ears “This really, really sucks”


End file.
